


Wild Things

by Odaigahara



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Animal Traits, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders Angst, Gen, Misunderstandings, Post-Episode: Putting Others First - Selfishness v. Selflessness Redux | Sanders Sides
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:20:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25684924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Odaigahara/pseuds/Odaigahara
Summary: The dreams had come back.He'd been free of them for solong, but the wedding had shaken something loose in him, had pushed some infernal gear back into alignment. Now the whole hellish machine was turning, churning up sensations he'd ignored as long as he'd been alive. All the old signs of his unsuitability, his impostordom, were bobbing up to the surface like a sailor's corpse that had lost its weights.They always started the same way: he was in a light-drenched forest, looking down at the grass, and the leaves were the pale green of early spring.*After the wedding, Roman is terrified he'll be found wanting. Then his dreams return, visions of a warm forest where he's so much less than human, and he knows it's already too late.Light Sides don't have animal traits. They're a curse for the Dark Side alone.
Relationships: Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders & Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders
Comments: 15
Kudos: 94





	Wild Things

**Author's Note:**

> AND that's the last of the drafts I've been working on! Posted late, so edits for flow may occur.
> 
> TW at end of chapter.

Roman was avoiding the Imagination and also everyone else, which rather limited his options for places to mope. Not that moping was what he was doing, of course, but he’d rather surpassed brooding on the third day. Now he was staying in because he was too cowardly to face the music. He’d written a fucking letter of apology to Janus, snapping his fingers to send it to his door, but he hadn’t seen the snake in person since he’d learned his name.

He hadn’t seen anyone in person. Virgil had come by, and they’d sat on opposite sides of his door, commiserating through notes shoved under the door, but Roman hadn’t had the heart to remove that last barrier. Virgil would have wanted to talk about Janus, to be angry about him, and Roman was tired. He hadn’t made a sound when Patton came to check on him, and as far as he could tell, Logan hadn’t bothered to question his absence at all- at least, not to the extent that he’d tried to initiate contact.

That left Roman to stare at the ceiling, too tired to write or draw and excruciatingly conscious of the tension like a wire strung through them all, drawn taut- like a garrote wound around his neck. There was no use lagging; they could leave him here for as long as they liked, and he would be the first to break. Soon enough he’d be back at their heels, begging for affection he didn’t deserve.

He'd have to. In the absence of the others, without the distraction of their arguments and their company, the dreams had come back.

He'd been free of them for so _long,_ but the wedding had shaken something loose in him, had pushed some infernal gear back into alignment. Now the whole hellish machine was turning, churning up sensations he'd ignored as long as he'd been alive. All the old signs of his unsuitability, his impostordom, were bobbing up to the surface like a sailor's corpse that had lost its weights.

One would think the embodiment of Creativity could control his own nightly musings, but Roman had never been so lucky. The best he could do was ride them through and banish them come morning.

They always started the same way: he was in a light-drenched forest, looking down at the grass, and the leaves were the pale green of early spring. The air smelled like dew and crisp apples, but the trees around him were the wrong kinds, oaks and aspens and stately chestnuts, lovely and wild.

He couldn't see his feet, and when he reached to touch a branch, the leaves shifted without the touch of a hand. He was immaterial, delirious with a sun-sick intoxication, and the heat on his brow felt like the placement of a crown. He was sublime and endowed, and the forest breathed with him, breezes brushing the canopy and tousling his hair with the same gentle caress. They smothered him through with prismatic warmth, splitting white light into darting flowers, and as he moved beneath the trees he was weightless, untouched, and what thoughts he had were colors.

He overflowed. There was nothing between him and not-him, him and around-him, and he bled into it, melted through it, dripped apart and screamed it cold.

Slowly, inexorably, he became aware that he was running.

Ages passed. Finally he came upon a pool so deep it held its own night, its own impenetrable blackness. It unspooled over the grass and clouds and rich old trees, singing the sun to ice; he reached and recoiled, shrieked and sang back, begged for its touch and its absence, because there was something unnameable there, some deep cruel implacability— some abyss he could not afford to touch.

He ached to settle into it, _burned_ to understand, but another ache held him back: something soft and sweet and certain, a clear spot in the tumbling blur. He reared back to it and twisted away from it, and his nose touched the water, his branching crown lit like a dying star-

Then the trees and dappled grass returned, but all he felt was afraid.

Of course there was an easy explanation for what it meant- Roman wasn't _ignorant_ of the circumstances of his existence, only annoyed at them- but the chaos wasn't what frightened him. That part came after, when he looked down for the last time and saw the body of a beast.

Thomas's favored Sides- his _main_ Sides, the ones he fed and cheered and listened to, the ones who pushed him in the right direction- were in his image. In the beginning, they were a dad and a teacher and a prince, aspects of himself reflected at angles but still human, still trusted. Still tame.

Dark Sides were the primal ones, skulking close to the Subconscious where instinct and thought mingled, taking on forms that matched their functions. A spider, the primal fear that struck even infants; a snake, sly and Biblical; the Kraken, whose thoughts were alien and whose presence spelled horror.

Except Virgil wasn't a villain at all, just defensive and awkward and more understanding than Roman could have imagined. Except Janus was apparently looking out for Thomas like the rest of them. Except Remus was Creativity, too, and _he_ never ran short of ideas. A fitting replacement, maybe, if Roman fell short- and here he was, falling short more and more often, falling to pieces over a single missed opportunity.

Here he was, dreaming himself an animal and waiting on the day his outfit disappeared in place of something more fit for his office: darker clothes or plainer ones, or a weapon other than a sword.

A white streak in his hair, a tremor in his hands so he couldn’t write, wrists ending in bloody _stumps_ -

“Sucks, huh? Like getting a blowjob from a guy with dentures.”

Roman jerked upright, bringing up his knees and scrambling back to the wall. His brother tensed into a crouch, hunched like a gargoyle and grinning with bloody teeth. He smelled like brine and rancid meat. “Lovely mental image,” Roman snapped, heart racing at the intrusion. “ _Truly_ Oscar-worthy! Have you tried making it a screenplay?”

“I’ve got a few ideas,” Remus said, ticking them off on his grimy fingers. “’Dentures Dan,’ that’d be a comedy! For a drama it’s the quest for a satisfying blowjob, and the guy at the end realizes the best he’ll ever get is from the geriatric glory hole guy, except the guy just died of cancer on the streets, so our wonderful main character slits his wrists in a bathtub! I think I’d call it ‘Indentured To Pleasure’, or maybe something totally avant-garde, like ‘A Pigeon Sat On A Branch Reflecting On Existence.’”

“That one actually exists,” Roman said, queasy at the images Remus’s mere proximity forced into his brain.

Remus snickered. “I know! It gave poor Virgie nightmares.” He cocked his head, and Roman sucked in a breath, trying to focus on himself as separate, as clean and straight-edged and _right._ Remus scowled. “Speaking of nightmares,” he said, shaking his head to dislodge whatever Roman had put in it, “you’ve been in denial lately, haven’t you? Hiding in your room like a baby who lost his candy. One fuckup and you go to _pieces."_

The reminder hurt, though Roman had been running the failure through his head all week anyway. Something about Remus bringing it up, when surely he'd have done better, would have agreed with Janus in the first place- “I'm not _denying_ anything,” Roman said. “I know I messed up and made things worse after the wedding, you don’t need to _rub it in_ -”

“Whoosh, right over his head,” Remus said, putting a hand to Roman’s chest and pushing him back, infuriatingly casual. “Like a tomahawk that barely missed the back of your skull!” He grinned again, something undulating at his back, and Roman’s breath caught in his throat. Remus’s eyes trapped his, oceanic and glistening. “That’s not the denial I’m talking about. Like I said, Roman, if you'd bother to _listen:_ I'm here about nightmares."

“Don't," Roman snarled, scrambling to his feet- but Remus had a weight to him, and his hand was still on Roman's chest. Thousands of pounds crushed into a denser form, all of himself brought to bear to hold Roman in place. He made a terrible monster. "I'm not about to discuss anything with you, much less have a heartfelt conversation-"

"Heartfelt?" Remus asked. "Don't be stupid. I'm here to laugh at you." Roman glowered, and his grin widened, reaching past the edges of his face. Roman's blood ran cold. "All that time angsting and crying, am I good enough for them, am I different enough than my dear disgusting brother, and you fall flat over _this!_ One harsh word from Tommy-boy and it all comes tumbling down."

"Get out," Roman said, almost begging. "You've- made your point, all right, now leave me _alone!"_

"I haven't made any points yet," Remus said, but suddenly he was on the other Side of the room, giving Roman room to breathe. He leaped to his feet and clenched his fists. "You're not just the perfect prince any more, are you? If you _ever_ were."

Roman’s chest felt like caving in. Not the prince, not the hero, not enough. He hadn’t been enough, and Thomas had lost his best chance at stardom and Patton had been wrong but nothing Roman did was right, why did he even bother when there was a spare to take the reins-

"What're you thinking?" Remus asked, and if Roman hadn't known better he'd have thought his tone was kind. "You can talk to me, you know. We're almost the same now-"

“Get out, you _villain!”_ Roman's sword still came when he called, still settled into his grip like it belonged there. He wasn’t entirely bereft, not yet. "I'll talk to you when Moana's island freezes over!"

“So you think you can mope it away? Think you can cry like a little baby and just fucking pretend like before?”

"I'm not like you," Roman gritted out, ribs in a vise. "I don't want you around, don't you understand that? I _never_ want you around, you're always like this-"

“You know you made dear little Patty-cake cry?”

“I don’t want to talk to you," Roman snapped, though guilt stabbed him in the heart. Patton, dear sweet Patton who tried so hard to do the right thing, who'd been nice enough to say he still loved him, and maybe he even believed it. Patton could love someone as they slit his throat.

“I’m not leaving unless you make me,” Remus said, morningstar in hand. Roman remembered the weight of it slamming into his skull and swallowed.

"Remus, I'm serious. I’m not in the mood to fight.”

“Come on, bro. Unless you’re scared?” Remus grinned, teeth like razors, close and oppressive and he was going to kill him he was _he was_ and Roman had to _run_ -

He couldn’t move. His limbs were shaking, body frozen like he thought stillness could save him. The predator tilted its head. “Bro?” It came closer. Roman trembled. "Seriously, you've been acting weird as shit, even weirder than me-"

Roman broke and ran, and the Imagination coalesced around him.

He stumbled, knees hitting the grass, and the urge hit him again. Run. Run run run _run_ , until he was out of sight, in the trees, safe and hidden and warmed by the sun. Scatterflight terror fluttered in his breast, stronger than it had been for nearly a decade.

Roman closed his eyes and tried to focus on himself, confidence and lovely soaring inspiration, but behind it screamed primal trembling fear, persistent needling wariness, telling him to freeze and stare and flee. Something inhuman. Something _animal_.

He’d never hated himself so much. Of course the wedding had been the final straw. All those months of writers’ block, of uninspired contrivances, of rudeness and bullying and unwarranted Ego, puffed-up despite his uselessness-

Thomas had already been losing patience. Roman had tried so hard to get better, but some greater mistake overshadowed every minuscule effort. Refusing Janus- even though listening to him had been the mistake before, clearly he should have had more foresight, should have found a compromise that fit them all, what use was Creativity if he couldn’t even find a good way to keep a callback- had been a step too far.

Deceit's mouth had wobbled. He’d been about to _cry_. Roman knew that expression from his own face, but of course he hadn’t realized in time to mitigate the damage. And then Thomas and Patton, refusing to meet his eyes. And then that damnable question, why couldn’t he have just let it be, let himself pretend for as long as Thomas would let him that he still held him in high _regard_ -

Roman curled his hands over his head. The blue sky was dizzying above him, too bright and too clear, too fucking cheerful. He wanted storms, hail and biting winds, but the thing inside him craved grass and soft clouds, shade for the heat of the day. He wrestled with it and managed to dim the Sun, pushing clouds across its face to soak a weak drizzle into the earth.

He forced himself to stand, summoning his sword to a scabbard at his hip to be sure it would stay. His white coat went gray with damp, red sash bleeding maroon. Roman wondered if they'd even lighten after they dried. What would be the first to go, after his humanity? _Would_ the white fade to gray, the red to black, the gold to tarnished bronze? Would it leech him of color? Would his personality change?

Virgil was a spider, sure, but more than that he was fear and caution, all that kept Thomas alive. Janus was important too, letting Thomas act and escape awkward situations with friendships and dignity intact- and Remus provided Thomas's darker ideas. They were Dark Sides- _had been_ Dark Sides- but more than that, they were necessary.

Roman wasn’t sure he was necessary anymore. The _others_ had always done their jobs.

It was doubtful even Janus would care to accept him, now he was turning so late. Not while _he_ was accepted, and Remus soon to follow. Not when it was Roman who deserved casting out.

Something tugged in his chest. Thomas, finally fed up with his avoidance- dragging him forward to tear him apart, maybe, make the bruises of his wounded ego worse, tell him all the ways he’d failed, and they would all be true. He was a bad Creativity and a worse friend, and now that he was- was _changing_ -

Nothing differentiated him from Remus. By all rights, he should take the blow before dread made him a coward. Accept his fate, and take whatever scraps they fed him. Leave the stage gracefully.

Another tug. Was he imagining the impatience?

 _Roman, we really need to talk_ , said Thomas, addressing an empty part of the room.

Roman had made Patton cry. Would it bring him to tears again, knowing what Roman had become? Wasn’t it only fair that Roman be scorned like the Dark Sides before him? A taste of his own medicine. A cut from his own sword.

_Roman, sweetie? Are you there?_

Better to make it a clean break. Let them shed him like old antlers so new ones might grow. That was a pertinent comparison, wasn’t it.

Ducking out would be inexcusable, selfish beyond measure, but if he just left, deprived them all of his wonderful company- wouldn’t that be doing them a favor? Couldn’t they get on just as well without him? After all, they had a spare.

And if he found a way to reverse this- to redeem himself, make himself the hero again, return his heart to the Light-

First things first. Roman measured his breaths, resisting the other Sides' pull, and slowly the summons receded. They’d realized he wasn’t coming.

All the better. If he truly had to leave them, the least he could do was sever on his own terms.

Roman looked down, trying to remember the path he'd taken through the impossible color of the dream, and set out for the forest. It felt far too much like coming home.

**Author's Note:**

> TW: self-hatred, unreality in the context of a dream, threats


End file.
